


Samhain Shenanigans

by Mx_Maxie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom/sub, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Mommy Kink, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Puppy Play, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Magic, Sex Toys Under Clothing, Strap-Ons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-10
Updated: 2020-10-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:15:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,767
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26927206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Maxie/pseuds/Mx_Maxie
Summary: There's never anything boring about a Samhain revel, no need to bring along extra entertainment, but what could a little game hurt? One without rules, or penalties, or even a loser really.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Comments: 3
Kudos: 128





	Samhain Shenanigans

When she’s little, Hermione loves Halloween because it’s a day to dress up as anything she likes. She gets to be a princess, a superhero, an astronaut heading for the stars, and for one day it’s all perfectly real. Mum buys her a costume, or puts one together from her regular clothes, and Dad takes her out for candy down the road.

Halloween’s marvellous when she’s eight, nine, ten, then she’s eleven and Halloween’s so much more. Because she’s eleven and she’s a witch, and that’s  _ not  _ pretend. She wears robes and has a wand, and  _ no _ , she doesn’t have to put them away after the day’s done. She gets to keep them, and her books, and her very own friends. 

There’s so much to love about Halloweens after she’s eleven, when she’s twelve, thirteen, fourteen. Then the world capsizes and she starts to think about war; Hermione focuses on surviving. Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, she doesn’t think about pretending to be anything but what she is, even if what she is could get her killed. 

She’s a witch, still a witch, but not enough of one. Until she is, until she’s not, until she’s sitting on a cold stone floor, hugging her knees and watching a woman sob and scream in silence. That’s not a Halloween, it doesn’t end on one, but she thinks of that day anyway. 

When she fixes her headband just so and slides the belted tail around her waist so precise. Hermione thinks back to the bespelled and bewitched woman who’d done so much bad and so much wrong. Bellatrix Lestrange she’d been then, right-hand to a monster. 

Except she hadn’t seemed such a monster, had she? Screaming herself hoarse, though someone had silenced her voice; flinging herself against her chains and bindings until she was bleeding where they bit. No one had believed a word she’d said back then, about the control or curse, about what she’d never meant to do. 

They were ready to throw her back in the hole she’d been forgotten in for so long, slam shut the door and let her rot.

“Are you ready darling?” Bella asks, breezing through the door already dressed and smart. She makes a gorgeous Maleficent, horns curling from her hair, wings rustling on her back. She hadn’t wanted to watch the muggle movie at first, thought it ever so trite in how the fae were portrayed, not at all like the show claimed, but she’d loved that one woman.

A witch abandoned by what she loved and remembering how anyway. What a lovely story, and what fantastic tits. 

“Almost, I just need my cape,” Hermione answers after one more touch to her ears. They’d meant to match, really they had, but this was  _ so  _ much better. Still fairy tales but oh what tales. 

“Hmm, what’s the line? You look good enough to eat?” 

And Hermione can’t help her flustered giggle. Can’t stop herself squeezing her legs just that much tighter together. They can’t, not right now, but oh she wishes they could. There’s the party to get to and friends to meet but she’s nearly entirely sure she won’t be paying attention to any of that. 

Bella sweeps into place behind her, hands settling on her hips, chin hooking over her shoulder to whisper right in her ear. 

“My good girl always does though,” Bella hums, and kisses her cheek, her jaw, that delicate little spot at the hollow of her throat. 

In the mirror, she only looks startled; eyes wide and lips parted ever so slightly, nothing else to betray her. Oh but there’s so much, too much. There are hands on her hips, rocking her subtly, a delicious back and forth that shuffles and shifts her toys inside of her. Not enough to dislodge anything, never, but oh  _ more  _ than enough to feel. 

The dildo in her cunt, worked in an hour earlier, with teasing and taunting that left her nearly in tears. With her thighs shaking and chest heaving, desperate for one more touch, just one more to take her over the edge. But not given, of course.

And of course the plug in her ass, keeping her stretched perfectly open for later. For when Mummy slipped her  _ real  _ tail in and fucked her into the mattress. Fucked her until there was nothing in her head and nonsense in her mouth, only whines and whimpers like a good puppy. 

Because Hermione had never pretended to be a witch or a darling or a puppy, she’d never needed to. She’d always  _ been  _ a witch and she’d always  _ wanted  _ to be a good little darling, and now, she can be a perfect pup too. 

One last rock back, a particularly delicious one that sends her eyes fluttering and builds a keening whine in her throat, but she catches it at just the last second. No no, not allowed, not quite. She has to make it through this gala and back home before she can be the good puppy her Mummy adores.

So no whines, no whimpers, and certainly no begging, no matter how much she’ll want to. And she’ll want to, oh she knows she will. But if she does, then she’ll lose the game and losers don’t get prizes, do they?

“Ah, here it is,” Bella says, and steps away. Hands off her hips, mouth off her neck, taking away her sweet warmth so she can brandish a gryffindor red cape. One with holes in the hood for her ears and embroidered with the subtlest wash of silver to make the most poignant point.

Hermione stands still as Bella fixes the cape around her throat, knuckles brushing her throat, then as she straightens the shirt underneath. Tugging at the hem to make it lay perfectly flat, dragging her palms down the chest once, twice, over-over until Hermione’s grabbing at the vanity to keep herself standing. The gentlest drag of silk over her nipples is nearly too much, and the pinch of devious fingers entirely is. 

She has to clutch at the vanity, nails sinking into the antique wood, to stop herself falling-sprawling on the floor, while her wicked wife smiles at her in the mirror. Playing her so easy and familiar, until her chest’s heaving and her nipples are tingling and she’s honestly nearly there. 

“Come along pet, can’t be late.”

And the sweet pinch disappears, hands gone. Bella sweeps out the room as elegantly as she’d come, and Hermione’s left to pant through clenched teeth until she can stand alone again. Not too long, not after all her practice, but she can already tell this gala will be  _ torture _ . 

Though her own wicked smile does say that she won’t mind it  _ quite  _ so much. 

* * *

The grand hall’s the same as she remembers, decorated in gaudy silver and sumptuous green with the appropriate charms giving the whole room a distinct sepia tinge. Like something of an old muggle movie, charming almost, quaint to be sure. Bella thinks Cissy did a wonderful job of turning her home into a samhain haunt and she would congratulate her sister, if she find her. 

Bella's been looking of course, hasn’t been distracted by anything else. Oh never. Though, the firewhiskey in her glass is only lukewarm and the conversation flitting around her’s turned to talk of the newest Sire of the Denali coven. Some gorgeous blonde, possibly veela mix, possibly not, who’s to say? 

Not Bella of course, who’s sipping on her whiskey and scanning the room for her...sister. Cissy should be around  _ somewhere _ , it would be far too rude for the gracious hostess to disappear in the middle of the party. Just the same as it would be for the Minister to abandon her post. 

Bella could, with ease, cast a location charm on her dear pet, but oh where’s the fun in that? Half the thrill’s in the chase after all, the hunting-tracking across the room, through the manor looking-looking. Is her pet in the grand hall? Where they made their grand entrance arm in arm as they always are, her pet smiling so charming and she with wings spread? 

No, not there. Bella’s looked, thrice, and  _ so  _ odd that her pet’s missing along with half the old codger’s army. No chosen boy in his golden robes, no red headed weasel children in their myriad of costumes, not even her dear nephew in his charmed scales. Well, none of them are as young as they used to be, they aren’t children anymore and haven’t been for _such_ a while, but they’re all older than they thought they’d live.

Bella understands, of course she does, but that doesn’t make her any less curious to know where they’ve gone. Where oh where could they have gone and what oh what could they be doing together?

Off onto the grounds to build a bonfire? Oh yes, Bella remembers sneaking out of bed herself, creeping down by the lake to make her own fire with her friends. Though, these aren't children, so perhaps they’ve all run off to hold a seance, call to the ones they’ve lost and speak to them one last time. Hmm, not something she’s done personally, but she has watched others.

Maybe her pet’s gone to support her dear, darling friends. Or, most likely, they’ve all gone to get rip-roaring drunk away from prying-judging eyes. Which, how rude of them to not invite her.

Bella smiles at a minister and refreshes her glass, tapping a finger as she thinks. She could go looking, though it's early yet, and see what her puppy's up to. Or, she could simply, cast a simple little spell to do a simple little thing and imagine her pup gasping mid-word and shuddering mid-step. 

Assuring her friends she was alright of course, nothing to worry about at all. She’d just: drunk a little too much, lost her step, was a bit clumsy. Each said a touch too breathless, a bit too pitched. Would any of her friends notice? The golden boy or his quidditch champion? Her very own nephew or maybe Xenophilius’ girl?

Hmm, hard to say, her dear-darling wife could hide herself so well and Bella smiled to herself at the thought. The conversation around her turned again, to the upcoming spate of celebrity weddings, and Bella slipped away in the midst of it all. Slinking out of the grand hall with her shivering wings and off to a private little nook.

One with silk hung from the ceiling and lace edging the couches and a grand window overlooking the sprawling lawn. There were more people spilled out across it, younger than the political nepotists inside, far tipsier too. Lovers getting lost in Cissy’s expansive hedge maze, groups clustered around a growing large-larger bonfire down by the pond. 

Why, there was even a relatively small troop off into the depths of the garden with a golden boy leading the way. Bella watched them, a little bubble of amusement bursting past her lips, she could remember another small group sneaking away from parties too. Herself, Dromeda and Cissy, and their cousins, and anybody under thirty really. Off-off into the gardens while the adults talked politics and arranged marriages and whatever stuffy thing they did. 

Bella remembered bonfires, shrieking like a mad thing and dancing herself winded. She remembered falling by the pondside, kicking up sprays of water and ruining her fine robes. She remembered sitting and listening to Dromy tell her most haunted tales, or Lucy swear about sordid hexes.

Most of all, well most of all she remembered fingers tangled together in the dark, another girl who’d gone on to die in a madman’s war. Her name had been...well her name had been something and her face had looked like something else, and Bella couldn’t remember the sound of her voice or the music of her laugh, but she could remember a warm hand. A warm kiss. The dementors hadn’t been able to take  **_that_ ** . 

And they won’t take a thing more. Not one little bit, because Bella’s done her time under them and the loathsome  **_worm_ ** . They wouldn’t dare look her way again, her darling-dear would never let them.

She is safe here in her sister’s home and she is happy here, in this life with her marvelous wife. One who’s out in the grounds, with her friends, having the childhood that she never had a real whack at. And, if Bella settles herself on the couch to wait, and flicks her magic ever so precisely (two ticks for something warm and buzzing) then that’s her business and hers alone. 

* * *

Down at Malfoy’s lake, she isn’t the Minister of Magic, and Draco isn’t Britain’s finest Potions Master. By the bonfire (jumping blue, dancing purple, spitting orange) Harry isn’t the Lord of Death, or even a Professor. Viktor is just Viktor and Luna’s as Luna as ever. Not a single one of the wizards and witches shrieking-screaming-laughing around her is anything but a friend taking one night off to live and love and  **_be_ ** .

And Hermione has to blink away tears (happy of course) every time she realises that. And she has to watch her feet before someone tramples by, Harry and Viktor dancing a good foot off the ground. Draco and Luna twirling star-sparks from their wands, or Ron and Ginny fiddling fire with a spell even  _ she  _ doesn’t know. 

There’s no work there, nothing but them and nothing but fun to be had under the smiling harvest moon, and isn’t that something? Hermione thinks it is. Though, she really does have to have a word with her dearest wife when they get home. In their bedroom, pawing at each other, lips sliding and breath mixing while they have a heated  _ conversation _ . 

Because she’s having such fun, like she’s half-forgotten how to have, but there’s a thrill of filth under it all. When the plug inside her shifts just perfectly, or the vibrator nudges that delicate little spot that makes her see stars brighter than Luna’s sparks. Or worse  best of all, when she gets too comfortable in her buzzing skin and the dastardly bastard of a toy taped to her clit hums to life. 

And that’s heat, and that’s clutching at her thighs and gasping for breath. Because the utterly minuscule thing is absolutely relentless and could take her to her knees, keep her there, and make her beg so desperately. Except it wouldn’t even matter, no matter how badly she begged or sweetly she whined, she was all the way by the pond and Mummy was off in the house, and ohhh what a terrible game she’d agreed to.

Something to help her relax, Mummy’d said with a smile and a dark twinkle in her eye. Something to help her forget about nasty work and focus on the lovely time she’d be having with all her friends. Nice memories were so important to make after all, and they both knew poor little darling needed help forgetting work. She really did obsess over it, didn’t she?

“Yes I do, thank you Mummy,” was what Hermione’d said right back. Instead of a fib like, “I’m a big girl, I can take care of myself dearest,” or a downright lie, “I don’t need your help Bella, I’m perfectly capable of having my own good time.” She’d tried both before, when she’d been scared before. 

When they were new and so-so easy to break, she’d wanted everything to be perfect in that beginning. She’d wanted to perfect, as perfect as she ever was, and Bella’d seen right through it then, and sees right through it now. 

From where? A window of the mansion? Can she see down-down onto the grounds, around the pond, where all the younger set have gathered together. Drinking firewhiskey and dancing themselves tipsy. Does Bella need a spell to tell her or does she simply know her darling girl so well?

Mione doesn’t know, oh she doesn’t, but whines and squeezes her legs together all the same. Thinking of the eyes she knows must be on her, the lips twitched up in that delightful smirk. Luna quirks a brow at her, perceptive as ever, but Harry hollers and all attention’s back on him. Away from her, where she’s slumped against a statue of some great-grand Malfoy or the other.

The marble’s quite cool through her clothes actually, and does wonders for her burning flush, but she can’t stay by the stuffy old thing all night. And, with all eyes on Harry, it’s ever so easy for her to slip away. With a knowing wink from Ginny and a pained smile from Draco of course, who’ll no doubt run to Narcissa and tell her exactly where her big sister’s disappeared off to. 

So that’s settled, and no reason to dally any longer. She’s already had such a lovely time. She’s danced with Ron and drank with Harry, caught up with all the friends she barely has time to see anymore, and now it’s quite time to reign herself in. Well thank Merlin she doesn’t have to do the reigning. 

Tripping back up the path to the house is harder half-tipsy, her cape flutters out behind her like the cloak she hid half the war under and her hair bushes up, spells and creams wearing off already. It really is time to go. Though, she does have to stop and say polite hello to all the people wandering by. She’s still the Minister after all, back into half the real world, where she’s the Minister again but can wear wolf’s ears just fine.

And maybe she should think about the wizarding world implications of this particular story and her specific costume, but she’s muggleborn, and their champion to boot. Hermione Granger is allowed to be a little eccentric, especially on this of all nights. Why, if you can’t let your hair down for All Hallows then when can you possibly?

Hermione plunges out of the garden into the dancing lights of the lawn and nearly goes sprawling when her knees buckle mid-step and her cunt clenches so delicious sweet. Around the toy positively  _ rattling  _ away inside of her, around the plug keeping her open just right. She loses her step and forgets her breath but she barely has the chance to fall before she’s being caught and held. 

Warm arms, strong arms, wrapping her into welcome embrace. Rustling-rattling wings spread, tugged wide by magic, then close around them, hiding them from the rest of the mostly drunk party. To give them a precious moment to themselves, though they’re so close to having the rest of the night for their own. 

Oh so close, so very nearly,  _ almost  _ there. 

“Did you enjoy yourself, pet?” Bella asks, stroking her burning cheek, and answering her needy whine with a kiss. Something soft to tide her over, barely a brush of lips to her temple, but it’s enough. For now, for this, at least.

“Cissy did such a good job, don’t you think?” and twirls one of the ears, strokes it base to tip while Mione shudders. Eyes slipping shut and rolling back, well hidden away in this little pocket of night. 

Bella doesn’t expect her to actually answer, does she? She couldn’t. Oh but the devious, wicked, cruel,  _ lovely  _ grin on her wife’s lips gives her every answer to every piece of that question. 

She could. 

“I th-- _ ink! _ ” her voice shrieks up as the nasty little vibe hums against her clit, exactly like her malicious Mistress’ chuckle against her lips. 

“What was that? Do speak up dear,” Bella murmurs right into her ear, lacing that sugar-sweet tone with a smidge of spellwork. Only a hint, something to stand her hair on end and make her shiver-shudder-shake for something so much other than the toys still melting her. 

“Puh-lease Mummy,” she begs just under her breath, barely a whisper even. Half-hidden in the darting shadowscape of Malfoy’s garden, surrounded by every last one of her fellows (though Bella insists there’s no such thing), and she feels comfortable enough begging her  _ Mummy  _ in  _ that  _ voice. 

The one that’s borderline too polite, the one that’s almost brattish, but only ever almost, because she’s a good girl. Always a good girl, even when she’s been edged all through the party, and left dripping-leaking-aching every single thing she’s come anything near close. It’s really not fair, and she would make a strong argument in favour of her being allowed to cum, finally, but she can’t seem to remember how to speak. 

Not when Bella chucks her chin up with slender fingers and stiletto points pressing into her soft cheeks. Not when dark eyes fix on her and she freezes there, transfixed, utterly petrified by a snake she wouldn’t mind being eaten by. She’s about five seconds from begging for just exactly that. 

“I’ve been a good girl,” Mione breathes, never dropping that mesmerizing gaze, good girls never broke eye contact. Not when the grind-thrust-buzz in their cunt-clit made their knees give out entirely and they were right there, just there, oh-oh they could feel it. 

Good girls didn’t cum without permission. 

“You have, haven’t you?” is what Mistress hmms after a lifetime long moment of consideration.

And she opens her mouth to answer, Mione does, because she’s a good girl and good girls answer when they’re spoken to. Mmm but she can’t make it do words. Once it falls open, drops slack, she can’t manage to do more than pant with her tongue out like the pretty pup Mistress’ said she looked very like. 

“ _ It’s the ears, _ ” she’d said then, playfully then. 

“And good girls deserve rewards, don’t they?” 

But Hermione thought it’d been the collar, personally. After all, how often did they get the chance to flaunt something so public in front of the entire sitting ministry? And when was the next time she’d be complimented on her “lovely dragon hide collar, you must tell me who you commissioned!” while Draco choked behind her?

“Yes Mummy,” Mione whispers sweetly, accepting her prize with all the grace of a good girl. And stepping in closer, catching Bella in a dirty kiss like only bad girls give.

A burst of bonfire sparks covers the crack of them disapparating and a puff of smoke covers their fading away laughter.

* * *

She’s a vision in moonlight, with all the warmth drained away from her dark skin leaving just the svelte softness. Leaving her a living statue on her knees, with her head hung low and her curls brushing the floor on either side. And her back arched more perfect than any artist could sculpt, and her thighs  _ glistening  _ in the cool bright. 

Bella can’t help her own fluttering sigh, a blustery little thing that’s only half drunk. As she traces the tip of her crop up-up those thighs to the sweet wetness in between, rub-rubbing with the well-oiled shaft. Her edged out-wrung out puppy whines, a reedy little noise that barely breaks the soft silence of the room. And oh she does mean  _ soft _ . 

Everything is so deliciously, utterly, beautifully soft, and Bella hums to herself as steps back, and back again, does a little twirl in the moonshine. All Hallows Samhain has always been a terribly charged night, so much magic buzzing and alive. She’s simmering with it, a lust, a love, that’s almost too much to take, but-but-but she has her darling here right here to help her with that.

Her sweet puppy who’s forgot her words, every last one of them. When was it? After the fourth edge or the sixth? Before Bella rode her face or after she guided her stupid mutt rutting against her leg? Does it even matter?

Not tonight, not ever really. So long as they get here, this soft, floating space where Bella feels so free and Mione is so cared for. They both give each other exactly what they need and Bella moans a sigh, so content and grateful, what more could she have ever asked for?

A long, bone jolting shiver runs through her puppy and oh, she thinks she knows. Though her darling girl would never  _ ask _ , no-no, would never want to be a bother but she really does want this. Hmm but more than that, she  _ needs  _ this, and because Bella’s a stupendous pet owner, she’ll give her good girl exactly what she needs.

A flick of a finger draws the loveseat near, another and she has an armful of pillows to arrange just so. When Bella sits, it’s into absolute bliss, pillows softer than sin made of some marvellous muggle thing. She settles herself, spreads her thighs just enough, rearranges a few more pillows then turns her attention back to her very good puppy still kneeling where she left her.

“Heel,” Bella calls, a gentle thing that unlocks puppy’s frozen-set posture. Head dropping lower, legs sliding apart, until she’s nearly sprawled on the floor. Her panting’s louder now and the tremor curling her spine is unmistakable, oh poor puppy wants it bad. 

“Come girl,” and her girl scrambles to obey. Back up on her hands and knees, fumbling to get her limbs to obey, turning and crawling as fast as her stalling brain will let her. Oh but like she said, everything’s soft right now, soft and hazy in the best way. 

Mione comes to her in stumbling steps, shaky as she crosses the empty space between them. In the dark though, well their room is endless then, isn’t it? On All Hallows Samhain? The shadows bite and the silence sings and their magic wraps around them tighter than a second skin, and Mione’s trembling hand is an electric jolt up her spine, stops her heart.

Then Mione’s second touch restarts it, and Bella throws her head back in a long, low groan. Yes, yes,  _ perfect _ . 

Slowly, piece by shaking piece, Mione climbs into her lap, settles herself across Bella’s spread legs with soft huffs and puppy dog wuffs and not a single word. There’s nothing that needs said really, only what’s understood between them, and there’s so much. The whisper of a mind brushing against hers, nudging against the shields she keeps so secure, not trying to get in. Not like the wretched  _ snake  _ that lived there for years-years-years

**_No_ ** . No. Her Mione is a puppy, a golden little thing gamboling and playing and just rolling up against her shields and showing a tempting belly. Mione is giving her this, not trying to take, and Bella has every chance to pass on the opportunity, she has the  _ choice _ .

The first slap doesn’t crack like it usually would, off the walls, between them both. The sound is almost muffled, almost stopped up with cotton like their hazy-heady minds, but it’s nice, oh so nice. And Bella adjusts, makes sure she won’t do more than she means to, and swats her puppy again-gain-gain. 

There’s no counting, no rhythm. She leans down to kiss her shaking-shivering puppy between swots, trailing them down her spine, along the edge of her jaw. Bella pets those lovely curls, cups the sweet ass that’s already burning under her hand. It’s too dark to see the deep-deep red, the moonlight steals that colour too, but Bella knows it’s there.

When her darling’s whines hitch in the middle, draw out and break, she knows. When she lands a slap right below that delicious curve, so much closer to her puppy’s cunt, Mione jerks. Whole body and full, and oh Bella  _ knows _ .

She makes some sound between a shush and a coo, hauling her girl up-up to sit in her lap, to look at her lovely face. One that’s blush hot and sweaty, trails of hair stuck to her temples, tears dripping down her cheeks. Oh that’s gorgeous, ever so lovely.

Bella catches one on her thumb, humming nonsense and blinking cat slow. The teardrop glistens there, a bead of diamond in the dark, and really only one drop from the sea in her darling’s eyes. She can’t help popping her thumb in her mouth, not that she tries, and the needy whine is half hers, half her darling girl’s. 

As her tongue drags along the pad, as her eyes flutter shut just for one exquisite second. Her puppy slips over her thighs, sits properly in her lap, and the harness straps itself to her hips between them. There’s no spoken question and no verbal answer, but there is a question with a definite answer. 

In Mione lifting herself up-up and holding perfectly still over her Mistress’ cock, the one that specifically stretches her achingly wide and fills her up so right. In Bella settling her hands on those most familiar hips, fingers curling around the bone automatically, thumbs hooking without waiting. In both of them sinking onto-into each other with a slow and steady slide that’s pure bliss. 

On Mione’s tear sweet face, in Bella’s pixie flutter heart. Sometimes she wishes she could bottle this feeling, put it in a little golden vial and keep it for the days the prophet is particularly nasty, when her darling is away for work, when she can’t get out of bed and the covers are her only comfort. She wishes most ardently that she could have this and remember it and never be afraid of something coming to take it away. 

But her sweet girl rocks into her, buries her face at her throat and peppers kisses there. Soft ones that almost tickle, nips that almost break skin, little pecks that steal her away from getting too morose. Drag her back and ground her to this moment, and all it’s lovely little pieces. 

The high pitched noise when her puppy finally bottoms out and all of her weight presses the base of their toy right into Bella’s clit. Not uncomfortable ohhh never, it’s just right, just perfect, just  _ lovely _ , and guides her lazy roll up into the sweet-wet heat of her puppy. 

There’s nothing frantic about their game this time, not like at the party where she was focused on riling her dear red riding hood up. Where it was all about playing with all the little pawns on the board, teasing them all with something so naughty that they would never guess in all their years. The Ministry wouldn’t, not a single one of the Ministers, and certainly not the uppercrust must that had been decrepit when Bella was a girl. 

Hmm, Mione’s little friends might have caught something, dear Draco most certainly, but they were young too. They all had their own little games to play with each other, dancing on lakes and whiskey hot kisses to match the fires in their blood. Oh to be young and wild.

Though, she’s got a young, wild thing here, hasn’t she? A playful little puppy that’s ever so obedient, a darling girl that’s riding her cock like a prize winning whore.

“What would they all say if they could see their champion now?” Bella purrs, grabbing hold of her puppy’s scruff and using that convenient grip to guide her into another kiss. 

A kiss that is messy, delightfully so, and a kiss that is wild. Pumpkin pasties and alcove hidey holes, sips of wine from father’s cellar and glitters of gems from mother’s collection. Giggling around crystal balls and laying out the tarot with candles lit. Kissing a pretty girl, fucking a pretty boy, hands held in the dark. 

Bella asks but she doesn’t particularly want an answer, mostly because no one else is ever allowed to see her sweetheart like this. Only her, jealousy her. They can have there glimpses, and suspicions, and wonder themselves dizzy. Tonight they saw the ears, beautifully made and still perfectly perched, tonight they got to ask about the collar sized and fitted precisely. 

Tonight the magic was high and they both had an urge to be wild, but that was a treat. Nobody else gets to have this good girl writhing in their laps, not a single living soul may hear these whispery whimpers from  _ her  _ puppy. They haven’t  _ earned  _ her tears. 

Sometimes Bella barely believes she has, but Mione will always swear she’s done that and more. In her no nonsense voice, in her needy little whines, and the stuttering rut she’s slowly falling into. The pace of up-down-up is simply too hard to keep up, between their wild kiss and the full fit of this particular dick. 

So impossibly hard. Their kiss breaks so the poor thing can catch her runaway breath, and so Bella can snap her hips  _ up _ , and set a new pace that’s simply wicked. One that grinds her puppy’s clit on every juddering thrust and makes the mess between them just that much more wet. 

And, when she cums, it isn’t something back-breaking, heart-stopping, though sometimes it can be. This time it isn’t though, this time it’s a slow slide, a steady thrum of pleasure that simply builds-builds-builds until it peaks-crashes-washes over.

Mione gasps-pants-whines through it, foreheads pressed together, and after their night of games and the mania of Samhain, it could almost be a disappointment. Compared to the other games they’ve played and the more common fun they have, but it’s far from that. Having her darling in her arms, being able to commit it all to a memory so bright it would shine from their pensieve, oh it’s everything. 

A warmth in her gut that’s as silver as pleasure and twice as precious. To hold her darling through the juddering aftershocks, to kiss those tear tracted cheeks and brush their noses together. Once, twice, again until her girl’s giggling and smiling that utterly sweet, just a little self-conscious smile. The one that hides her teeth, though they’re perfectly straight now, and squints her eyes like a particularly pleased cat.

And they should clean up, get salve on those bruises, wipe away the sweat of their night. But oh, the moonlight’s falling just right across both of them. Casting them both in marble and plaster, but living still, alive like no sculpture could dream. Oh, isn’t she ever so lucky to have her very own Galatea cuddled close? 

Her beauty’s breath on her lips and her muse’s arms around her neck, holding her just as close, just as tight. 

“What would they say if they could see the big, bad witch now?” her puppy whispers and bursts into fresh giggles that she can’t help but join. Oh yes, she has very own Galatea, and to think, she didn’t even have to worship any Goddess other than this very one. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was written on request for someone who loves Bellatrix/Hermione a lot and wanted something festive for the season. They were also kink enough to let me use this as part of my Kinktober fics, so a big, big thank you for the fic outline and kinktober permission. 
> 
> As always, you can find me [@MMaximilla](https://twitter.com/MMaximilla) to chat or keep up with kinktober. 10 days in baby!


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